


I'm Going Down By the River, Where It's Warm and Green

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Biting, Freudian shit, Gen, M/M, Masochism, References to Drug Use, Vampirism, angst- oh the angst, dangerous sexual practices, dubious medical advice, gen with some sexual content, generally disturbing, no it's not, references to a major depressive episode, trigger warning: blood, trigger warning: self injury, vampirism is a metaphor, what could be interpreted as consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conrad's a vampire, and he has needs.  Horrible, horrible needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Going Down By the River, Where It's Warm and Green

**Author's Note:**

> I shouldn't have to say this, but what the hell: Do not try any of this at home. Also should go without saying: Do not take medical advice, or any advice, from Worth. Now that I've disclaimed the fuck out of myself, I'll address this to the one or two people I haven't managed to put off: I am not Tessa Stone, and this school is not Tessa Stone. I'm definitely not being paid to do this. The title comes from Bloodletting (The Vampire Song), by Concrete Blonde. This story can be read as fitting into the continuity of the previous ones, or not, depending upon the reader's inclination.

That first year at university had been difficult for Conrad; he'd never really been away from home, or had people expect things of him before. That he'd chosen to go someplace so far, in terms of location and character, from everything he knew, added to his panic; if he failed, his failure would have been preventable, making it all the more ridiculous. Because of the work, and his nerves, and a need for self-punishment even he didn't fully understand, he'd barely slept, and he'd eaten even less. In retrospect, it's obvious to him that he'd been depressed, and experiencing regular panic attacks. It's amazing to him that he avoided a complete breakdown. By the end of the final term of the first year, he'd felt his grasp on life in general, and his particular life, becoming ever more tenuous. Or, perhaps, it was life, the world, losing its grasp on him. So that he might slip right off of the curve of the globe.  
Now, as a vampire, he feels that way all of the time. It's only the finest of filaments tethering him to- anything, really. He doesn't want to stop being human- pretending to be human. He hates the blood; the sight and taste of it, and the way it makes him feel solid again, if only for a couple of hours. He'd hate Hanna for doing this to him, but he can't let himself; Hanna is part of the world to which he wants to cling. Strange, sometimes callous, but essentially good Hanna, who snatched him away from death, by making him into this.  
So, Conrad hates Worth, instead. Which is easy, as he thinks of Worth as a tangible side-effect of his new condition. A hacking cough, and the stink of sweat and cigarettes- that is Worth. Worth, who keeps him alive.  
It's Worth, literally, who keeps him alive. A few weeks earlier, Conrad made the most recent of many, previously ignored, comments about the squalor of Worth's place, and Worth replied, "Dunno why you're so squeamish about the way I live, when you've had me inside of you."  
And Conrad, as though following a script, sputtered, "What?"  
"It's my blood, y'know," Worth said, lighting a cigarette. He exhaled two jets of smoke through his nose. "It's my blood you've been drinking."  
Still, Conrad keeps coming back. He has to. Hanna's promised to look into finding him alternate means of getting blood, but Conrad isn't holding his breath. Metaphorically speaking.  
He knocks.  
"Door's open," he hears from within. The door's always open. Who would steal from Worth? He doesn't have anything anyone would want. Except for Conrad, and Worth's walking around with it, all the time. It's pumping through him, right now, as he stands up behind his desk.  
"Thought it was about time for your nightly feeding," Worth says with what he probably thinks is an amiable manner. He shuffles off to the general direction of the fridge, obviously fucked-up on something, and then pauses. "Let me ask you a question."  
"I don't have time for this."  
"Sure you do. The sun doesn't rise for ages. You ever consider getting it directly from the source? Know what I mean?"  
"Yes, I know what you mean. No, I haven't considered getting close enough to you to drink your blood. If you're going to make some sort of obscene comment, please do it quickly, because I wasn't kidding about not having time for your shit."  
"S'not obscene," Worth answers- softly, which makes Conrad feel unsteady. But just for a moment.  
"Well, yes, it is, a bit. Most of what comes out of your mouth is in some way obscene."  
Worth shrugs. "Just thought we could both get something out of it."  
"What could I possibly get out of it, other than hepatitis? Not that I could get that anymore."  
"You'd already have it."  
"I heat the blood."  
"Unless you're boiling it, it's not enough."  
Conrad opens his mouth, but can't think of anything to say.  
Worth waves his hand dismissively. "You're dead, and I'm clean, so it doesn't matter. And I wouldn't give you something I knew was bad."  
Conrad snorts. "I think you would."  
"Well, now, I'm just insulted. I rescind my offer to let you suck on my delicious neck."  
"You weren't serious, were you?"  
"I certainly was. I wouldn't tease like that."  
Now, Conrad can only laugh. "How high are you?"  
"Fairly- er, very fucking high."  
"Just give me my blood, and go sleep it off."  
Worth blows a raspberry, and continues on his path to the refrigerator. Finally, he gives Conrad his blood, and Conrad leaves, feeling at once virtuous and kind of like an asshole.

He can't stop thinking about it. Try consciously to not think of something, and that just lodges the thought in the mind. Worth is clean; Conrad knows he was telling the truth about that. It both fascinates and disgusts him that he's become able to smell disease, and to differentiate between various maladies. He passes a woman in the hallway on the way out of his building, and he knows that, in a few days, she'll be suffering from flu. On the street, he catches a whiff of appendicitis- herpes- the common cold. It extends to the condition of life relative to that of death. Hanna's other undead friend smells only like leather and formaldehyde; nothing living has occupied that body for a long time. Hanna, himself, bears the cloying apple-y scent of the early stages of decomposition. Worth reeks of chemicals, unwashed skin, and organic putrefaction. If all of that were washed off, all that would remain is living flesh, living blood.  
He could probably find his way to Worth's office with his eyes closed. The scents and sounds change with each street, like pages being turned, but he could navigate those streets by pure feeling. Now, he's two blocks away, and the ghost of an elevated pulse sings through him. Out of habit, he inhales deeply air he doesn't need, to try to slow a heart that isn't actually beating. He pauses, in the middle of the street. He's never considered animal blood. On television, the good vampires drink animal blood, and they seem to do fine. Humans sometimes drink animal blood, or they use it in cooking. It's a perfectly normal thing to do. When he gets to Worth's, he'll ask him about it. Not that he expects to get a serious answer.  
Then, he's there. He knocks.   
"It's open, for chrissakes!"   
Of course, the door is always open. Who would steal from Worth?  
Worth doesn't look up from the book he's reading. "You know where the fridge is; get it, yourself."  
Before Conrad can stop himself, he asks, "You weren't serious about what you said last night, were you?"  
"Probably not. What did I say?"  
"You asked me if I wanted to, er, 'get it directly from the source'."  
"Oh, that. Yeah. I was serious."  
"Why?"  
"Might be fun."  
Conrad snorts. "For who?"  
"'For whom', you mean. Well, for me, obviously. Probably for you, too."  
"Re-really?"  
"Yeah."  
"It'd hurt."  
"That's the point."  
"And you want me to use my teeth?" Worth grins. "Er, tooth?"  
"Or a blade, if you need performance enhancement."  
Conrad covers his face with his hand. "Don't do that! Don't make it sound sexual."  
"It is, though. You're inside of me, then I'm inside of you. Fluids are exchanged. You get off. I get off."  
Conrad mutters, "I always hated that fucking metaphor."  
"'If you're not up to it, that's fine. You're not the only vampire I service, y'know."  
"Are you trying to make me jealous?"  
"Maybe. A bit."  
"What the hell is wrong with you?"  
Worth shrugs. "Lots. Make up your mind; I'm a busy man."  
"No, you're not."  
"I could be. I'm mysterious."  
"No, you're not." Conrad sighs, "It doesn't hurt to try, right?"  
"That's the spirit!" Worth says, and slams his book down on the desk. He takes off his coat, and begins to take off his shirt.  
"What are you doing?"  
"Taking off my top, ya dumb-fuck. Obviously."  
"Why?"  
"So I don't get blood on it."  
"What do you care?"  
Worth pulls his shirt over his head, and begins unwinding the bandages from his arms. "It's not me; it's Lamont. He's always pissing and moaning about how difficult it is to get out bloodstains."  
"Lamont does your laundry?"  
"Yeah."  
"Lamont does your laundry."  
"Yeah, all right."  
"I'm just going to let that sink in."  
"I told you; I'm busy. He's at the laundromat, anyway, rinsing his delicates, and trying to pick up housewives, so what does he care? You wanna try to use that little can-opener of yours, or do you want a blade?"  
"Huh? Oh." Conrad runs his tongue over his fang. "What do you think?"  
"I think you need all the help you can get." Worth goes into the back, and comes back a moment later with a scalpel that looks reasonably clean. He wags it like a pointy metal finger. "Do not go near my neck with this. Avoid the major blood vessels; I know you know where those are. You don't need to apply a lot of pressure. Make small, shallow cuts until you get the hang of it." He turns the sharp end toward himself, and presents the other end to Conrad.  
"I have to do it?"  
Worth rolls his eyes. "You have to be the worst vampire in the world."  
Before Conrad can reply, Worth draws the scalpel across his shoulder, bisecting a strip of white scar tissue, exhaling in a hiss as he does. A fine line of red opens upon his skin, and then swells and begins to drip. Worth bends at the knees to bring himself closer to Conrad's height.  
"Go on," Worth says.  
Conrad closes his eyes, and presses his mouth to Worth's shoulder. He hears himself make a satisfied sound in the back of his throat. Worth chuckles. It's so-  
"Warm," he says, absently touching his tongue to the blood staining his lips.  
"It's because I'm alive," Worth replies, as though speaking to someone he knows won't understand him.  
"Shut up." He tongues the wound, though the blood is already clotting, ceasing to run.  
"Here. Stand back." Conrad does, and Worth cuts himself again. This time, Conrad doesn't hesitate. Without thinking, he wraps a hand loosely around Worth's neck, begins steering him back, toward the wall. When they make contact, Worth exhales a puff of laughter.  
"This is going to be hell on my back. And my knees."  
"Do you want to sit down?" Conrad asks after a moment.  
"I'd rather lie down, actually."  
Conrad blinks. "I'm not going to-"  
"Your virtue is safe, I assure you. It's just easier to deal with the height difference that way, and when I inevitably begin to feel symptoms of blood loss, I won't tip over, and break open my fucking head."  
"Oh."  
"You have to know, though, at some point, it's going to get a bit steamy."  
"I think I'll just have to take that risk."  
"Well, brace yourself, then; I'm about to let you into my inner sanctum."  
"Your what?"  
"My bedroom, stupid."  
"You have one?"  
"I have to sleep someplace."  
"I thought you just sort of lay where you fell."  
"I do that, too."  
The area behind the main office is horrible, either more or less than what Conrad has already seen, because it's also dark. The darkness conceals to most whatever might be there, but to Conrad, who can see well enough, it just gives everything a sad gray tint. Every once in a while, Worth collides with an object, or steps in something, and swears loudly.  
"Why don't you just turn on the light?"  
"Where's the fun in- Ow. Motherfucker."  
Worth's bedroom contains only a twin bed and a dresser. It's surprisingly neat, probably because of its relative emptiness.  
Worth lies down. "Ready?"  
"Yeah." Gingerly, Conrad sits down next to him.  
Worth cuts himself again. Conrad can tell that he's gone deeper; the blood is darker, and has a stronger taste. It flows more freely, so he's actually drinking, instead of just licking. He's on top of Worth, now, desperately grateful that Worth chooses not to comment on that. Worth's heart is beating next to his head- all around him, it seems- and the sound is heady, mesmerizing. He can hear every wheezing breath Worth takes, the catch of air in his throat. The heat of Worth's body is voluptuous, electric, like a static charge. Conrad feels the urge to bite, and he does, worrying at the rent in Worth's skin, re-opening the older wounds. Worth has his hand on the back of his head, pushing him down, or at his jaw, signaling him to ease up. Conrad always hated that fucking metaphor. Even before he became a vampire.  
"Where else do you not mind, er, being punctured?"  
Worth swallows. "Fuck. My, uh, my arm. The left one. Need the right one."  
His tooth doesn't sink in, as one might expect it to, so Conrad has to worry, again, persistently, until he draws blood. He's become aware of just how much Worth is enjoying this, and with a detachment he didn't think himself capable of, he imagines that he should feel offended, or violated, or even just disgusted. He doesn't feel much of anything, though, but deep satisfaction and a kind of low, rolling pleasure. It reminds him vaguely of the time he smoked something at a party he later found out was laced with some chemical with an unpronounceable name.   
Maybe this is how Worth, with his substances and rituals, feels all the time. At once immune to reality and completely outside of it. Invincible and invisible, both. Conrad bites again into Worth's arm. This makes Worth arch, nearly convulsing, as though he'd been shocked, and let out something halfway between a moan and a yelp.  
"Fuck me," Worth says, and runs his free hand down his face. "That was an invitation, by the way."  
"Shut up," Conrad says blithely, and climbs his way up Worth's impossibly long body to regard his neck. The pulse is beating there, just behind thin skin; luscious, tantalizing. "I'm going to bite your neck."  
"Isn't that what all the old movie vampires say?"  
"I'm telling you, so you can stop me, if you don't want me to."  
"Oh, I want you to. Just mind what you do with your teeth. I can do 'ugly', but not 'disfiguring'. Or 'dead'."  
As he bites, he shoves a thigh between Worth's legs, which causes another near-convulsion. Gasping, Worth asks, "What are you-" Conrad bites him harder before he can finish the sentence.  
"You're going to make me-"  
The blood isn't just warm, it's positively boiling. It even tastes hot. It's warming him up, making him feel almost human again. He can nearly feel his heart beating, good and whole within his chest. Far away, he hears Worth cry out, cracked and ugly and naked, and it occurs to him that Worth is probably having an orgasm. It's not of very much positive or negative interest to him. All he's aware of is Worth's heartbeat, which is so very close to being his heartbeat. He's nearly alive again. He's nearly there.  
There's a hand in his hair, pulling. It ought to hurt, but it doesn't. If it doesn't stop, though, he'll end up with a bald patch. He pauses, and looks up. It's like the world has refocused, gone from a blur to total clarity.  
"Jesus Christ," Worth gasps, "Are you trying to fucking kill me?"  
"No?"  
"Then what the fuck are you doing? I told you to stop."  
"I didn't hear you."  
"Fuck."  
"I'm sorry."  
"You don't really mean that, do you?"  
Not especially, but he can't say that. "Of course I do. Give me something to stop the bleeding."  
"It needs stitching. Get off."  
Conrad moves to the side, and Worth procures from someplace a handkerchief, which he presses against his neck. Worth sits up. "I'll have to call Lamont."  
"Why? Can't you do it, yourself?"  
Worth laughs weakly. "I've lost a lot of blood. I can barely sit up. D'ya think I trust myself with a needle, right now?"  
"I could do it."  
"You're better at making holes than closing them up."  
"I didn't mean to."  
"I know. It's my fault, all right? Fucking stupid." He grins. "Completely worth it, though."  
Conrad feels slightly ill, but he doesn't know why. "I'll call Lamont for you," he says.  
"Thank you very fucking much." Worth retrieves his cigarettes, and lights one, reclining again.  
As Conrad leaves the room, he hears Worth say, "We'll do this again next week, all right? Once I've had a chance to recover."


End file.
